


don't come for me today

by achilleees



Series: jack/parse tumblr prompts [15]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Chess with Death, Gallows Humor, KonMari | Marie Kondo's Tidying Method, M/M, Soul Selling, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-05 02:11:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17910002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/achilleees/pseuds/achilleees
Summary: “I sold my soul to the reaper and now it’s time to collect,” Kent blurts out. It comes out easier than he thought it would. “Tonight.”There’s a pregnant silence on Jack’s end of the phone.





	don't come for me today

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blithelybonny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blithelybonny/gifts).



> TW: lots of discussion of suicide/suicide notes, treated in a somewhat flippant manner. Kent’s mental state is a little shaky, and normalizing his imminent death by treating it with humor is a coping mechanism. if the topic of suicide is a trigger for you, this might not be the right fic.
> 
> also tbh there's probs more humor (and pop culture references) than you're expecting, given the subject material. 
> 
> i blame blithelybonny for this.

Kent's been living on borrowed time since he was 18. He watched the first four seasons of Supernatural for inspiration, but barring any divine intervention via suspiciously hot angels coming to raise him from perdition, he's fucked.

In general, it has less of an effect on his day to day life than one might expect. He plays hockey, goes on dates, gets a cat, learns ASL, and produces a series of disastrous DIY projects that he staunchly refuses to throw out. He tries therapy for a while, but everything else seems so minor when the countdown of your human existence is steadily ticking down, and he can’t exactly bring that up with Dr. Sonia.

Not to say he avoids it entirely. When things started getting serious with Gabe – when Gabe started hinting about moving in together – Kent found himself babbling the _It’s not you, it’s me_ speech before he realized he was speaking.

It just wouldn’t have been fair to Gabe, right? 

Anyway, the nine year anniversary comes and goes and Kent starts checking on the countdown calendar more and more often, to the point that he has to delete it before he drives himself completely insane. It doesn’t work, of course, because he’s got the numbers emblazoned in his freaking brain, and he knows intimately when it goes under the 100 day mark.

100 fucking days.

But hockey makes a suitable distraction, and no one on the team notices when he starts getting a little quieter in the locker room, staying a little later after practice to shoot pucks into the empty net, eating a few more carbs and drinking a few more G&Ts when they go out to bars together.

What does it fucking matter, anyway?

Ten years, and Kent still can’t bring himself to regret it.

 

On the 25 day mark, Kent lets himself start thinking about logistics. It’s something of a relief, after so long spent pushing the thought from his mind even as it banged incessantly on the doors.

He makes a list, then sits back, absently rubbing Kit under the chin as he reads it over.

“Yeah,” he says to himself, “I can do this.”

 

  1. _Arrange Kit’s care post No-Rest-For-The-Wicked-Pt-2_



Obviously, he starts with the easy logistics, letting himself do one last bout of procrastination for the difficult emotional shit.

Scrappy adores Kit and she tolerates him as much as she tolerates anyone who isn’t Kent, so that’s an easy decision to make. Kent has spent some time subtly training Scrappy on all of Kit’s idiosyncrasies and instructions, and with those few weeks to go, he’s as satisfied as he’s ever going to be that his princess is going to be taken care of after he’s gone.

He thinks about writing out a fresh list of formal instructions, but he’s sure Scrappy still has the email doc from the last time Kent went home for a long weekend, so it doesn’t seem necessary.

Which raises the question, is he going to leave _anything_ behind with an explanation? A note, a letter, an absolution? It seems cruel not to. Any explanation has to be better than total silence.

He starts drafting what he privately dubs his _This Is Not A Suicide_ Note before realizing how impossibly dumb it is. If Jack had left him a This Is Not A Suicide Note before overdosing in the bathroom, the chance of Kent believing it would be flat zero. The Venn diagram of ‘People who are found dead in their apartments with a This Is Not A Suicide Note’ and ‘People who committed suicide’ is a circle.

Yet still, he dwells, because there has to be a middle ground.

Besides, he thinks with a lump in his throat, no one is ever going to believe it’s _not_ suicide. Kent Parson dead in his apartment on the 10 year anniversary of Jack’s overdose, the draft? The hockey media is going to fashion a narrative and fucking run with it.

So he writes the fucking letter, because he thinks it’s always better to control the narrative to the extent that one can.

_Dear whoever ends up reading this_ , it begins.

_Contrary to all appearances, I am not committing suicide. I know I have no way to convince you of this, and that 99% of you will not believe me. But if there’s any part of you that believes there are things beyond human comprehension, believe this._

_There are so many things I want to live for, and it breaks my fucking heart that I won’t. I want to get old and decrepit. I want to have kids, and I want to win another Cup, and I want to buy a timeshare in Vancouver because, I mean, #TeamUSA and all but Vancouver is the shit. Trust me when I say the only consolation here is that I won’t have to witness the death spiral of this horrendously polluted planet, because that shit freaks me the fuck out._

_I know I’m going to die because sometimes you just know, you know? If you look at this world and you decide you’re arrogant enough to say without a doubt that you understand its every mechanism, good on you, but you’re wasting your life, friend. Sometimes things happen, and they’re strange, but that doesn’t make it a lie._

_Unless Mom really wants Kit, I bequeath her to you, Scrappy, although I will admit I like the idea of people fighting over the privilege of keeping her, so as long as it doesn’t devolve into petty buffoonery I say go for it._

_Don’t try too hard to come up with answers. It’s not worth it._

_I love you all very much, and more than anything, I wish I didn’t have to write this letter. Please continue being awesome and grieve me as little as you can, but take as long as you need to do it._

_Vaccinate your kids, y’all._

_Kent Parson_

“We’ll call this a first draft,” he says to Kit, wincing as he reads it over.

 

  1. _Marie Kondo the apartment_



Technically it’s less Marie Kondoing than Swedish Death Cleaning, but for obvious reasons, he prefers the optics of _sparking joy_ to… death cleaning. He’s always skewed more minimalist than hoarder, but even he’s got shit that needs handling before he gets wiped from the face of the earth. He wants to make it as easy as possible for whoever gets tasked with cleaning up his mess.

Like clothes – why does he have so many fucking clothes? When did he even buy half this shit? Did he really think he was ever going to wear plaid pants? Was he trying to make a point to himself?

“This does not spark joy,” he says, tossing the awful Christmas sweater Troy once forced on him in the pile.

“Bullshit!” Spicer says, diving into the pile to grab it. “You’re keeping it.”

“I am not,” Kent says mildly, squinting at a hoodie he once stole from Jack and now keeps buried in the back of his closet. Does it make him happy? It does not, he decides, dropping it in the pile.

“But it looks so good on you!” Spicer says, holding it up to him. “How else will people know you’re ready for a jingle bell rockin’ good time?”

“Do you want to be disinvited to the Marie Kondo party? I can do that,” Kent says.

Spicer makes a wounded noise.

“You being annoying is not sparking my joy,” Kent says, tossing some striped shirt he’s never worn into the pile. “That is literally the only rule of being allowed in my apartment.”

“Fine, I’ll keep the fucking sweater, then,” Spicer says, tossing it across the room to keep it from getting mixed up in Kent’s stuff.

“I like that shirt, can I have it if you’re throwing it out?” Shacks says, raising his hand from his seat on Kent’s bed.

Kent starts laughing. “Fuck, guys, we just finished doing your places. I don’t think you’re supposed to immediately fill it back up with _my_ junk.”

See, Kent strategized for this. Subtly pressure some guys into deep cleaning their own apartments like it was a joke to him, so that they’d turn it around and demand he do the same. That way, no one would be suspicious when he ditched half his shit.

Kent’s a genius. His only oversight was letting Shacks and Spicer tag along to watch.

“If it sparks joy, Marie would support it,” Shacks says, snagging the striped shirt with his toe and bringing it up onto the bed with him. “Jesus, you’re really burning through your clothes. Sure it’s going to spark your joy when the Vegas paps notice you only have two shirts?”

“They’ll especially notice because one of them is absolutely batshit,” Spicer says.

Kent loves that shirt. He got it in China, and it reads _Get yourself a magic girl World – from bus to Wonderful!_ It’s the best thing he’s ever bought, and he would wear it every day if he could.

“I have more than two shirts,” he says. “Check your gross hyperbole at the door, mate.”

“Five shirts, whatever,” Shacks says.

This may not be gross hyperbole, Kent sees, looking through what’s left in his closet.

“I don’t think the point of Marie Kondo is to ditch all your shit and then buy new shit to replace it,” Shacks says. “Otherwise she’s clearly an obsequious flunky of the capitalist agenda and I refuse to believe that about her.”

“Hm,” Kent says, trying to think of a counterargument that won’t seem crazy. Swedish Death Cleaning is probably easier when people actually know you’re dying, he reflects. “Fair. Maybe I’ll tone it down a little.”

Spicer perks up. “Does that mean you’re keeping the Christmas sweater?”

“It does the fuck not,” Kent says, not unkindly.

 

  1. _Fucking go to the Grand Canyon already it is a 4 hour drive away how has it taken you this long you dumb motherfucker_



Kent goes alone, because he wants to. He wants to keep the windows rolled down and blast his shitty pop music without anyone bitching at him. He wants to stop at every kitschy tourist spot along the way. He wants to get a sense for the cosmic speck of the human existence without distraction or comment.

He gets up to a lookout spot at Hopi Point, and he sits down and looks out.

He looks for a long time.

“Um, excuse me?” someone says next to him.

Kent masks his grimace. He normally doesn’t mind signing autographs, but not right now. “Yeah?”

“Do you mind taking a picture?” says the middle-aged woman, gesturing between herself and the man next to her.

“Oh,” Kent says, hopping up. “Sure, yeah, of course.”

“Thank you so much,” says the man. “Our daughter says our, uh, selfie game is not on point.”

Kent grins. “There’s a learning curve to it,” he says. “I’ll take a few, yeah?”

“That would be amazing,” says the woman gratefully.

Kent snaps some close pictures, widens the view to get more of the background, makes silly faces at them until their laughs make their whole faces light up.

“These are wonderful,” the woman gushes, going through her gallery. She beams up at Kent. “Would you like us to take any of you?”

“I’m good,” Kent says, flashing a thumbs up. “Let’s just say my selfie game is _strong_.”

They laugh. “Thanks again!” the man says, and they leave.

Kent looks out over the Grand Canyon. It’s weird how much more meaningful that one moment felt than gazing out over one of the undisputed wonders of the natural world.

“Fucking hell, I could have just done that in Vegas,” he mutters to himself, and heads back to the car for the drive home.

  1. _Say goodbye to the fam_



He spends a few weeks after the Aces get knocked out of the playoffs getting things sorted in Vegas, and then he heads up to Rochester to bum around in his childhood home, letting his mom make him jambalaya and cinnamon rolls. She probably attributes his melancholy to the third round loss – Kent _hates_ losing in the Conference Finals – and he lets her believe it.

Kent sprawls out in the janky hammock in the backyard and looks up at the house, trying to look at things objectively. Is there anything he’s missed? Will his family manage without him? He paid off the mortgage years ago, and the portion of his money that isn’t going to various charities will support his mother and sister for the rest of their natural lives, he’s sure. Finances aren’t the issue.

He just doesn’t like knowing that they’re going to cry over him. Ten years ago, Kent watched Alicia and Bob Zimmermann break down in a hospital room, and it’s eaten at him every single day that he can’t protect his family from the same thing.

But Maggie’s tough, and Catherine’s tougher, in her own way. Parsons get beaten down, Kent’s not arrogant enough to claim otherwise, but they always get back up again.

He’s going to have to count on that, he thinks, sipping from a can of Lime-A-Rita that he found buried in the back of the basement fridge.

“You getting maudlin in your old age?” Maggie says, coming up at his side.

“I’m 27,” Kent says, flipping her off.

“28 in a few weeks,” she says, sing-song, “and next year it’ll be 29, and then the big –” _3-0_ , she mouths, widening her eyes.

Fuck, Kent wishes that were his problem. “We are all aging at the same rate,” he says patiently, because he has never understood age jokes. “You are not special because you happen to have been born after me.”

“I know, it’s all a carefully manufactured projection of my own existential crises,” she says very seriously, then snags the Lime-A-Rita from his hand and drains the whole thing in one go.

“Hey,” Kent says, wrinkling his nose at her.

“Bud Light is not meant to be savored,” she says, and starts climbing into the hammock with him.

“Oi!” Kent says, when he gets a pointy elbow to the sternum. “This hammock is not intended for two people.”

“We’ve got pictures on the fridge that suggest the contrary,” Maggie says, giggling and shoving at him to make room for herself.

“You’ll note that we were significantly tinier humans in those pictures,” Kent says. “Ow!”

“Oh, stop whining,” Maggie says. When she’s finally settled against his side with her head resting on his chest, it’s actually pretty comfortable.

Kent stares up at the sky and wills himself not to get emotional about this moment.

“So how’s Josh?” he says, once he masters himself. “Still fratty?”

“He was never fratty,” Maggie says.

“He was in a frat.”

“It was a coed literary society,” Maggie says. “Their version of pledging is making people recite pi to the most digits.”

“Wikipedia says it’s a frat, it’s a frat,” Kent says.

“I’m not going over this with you again, Kenny,” Maggie says patiently.

Kent smiles. “But he’s good?”

“Yeah, he’s good,” she says, tracing her fingertip in a little figure-eight right over his belly button, ticklish even through his tank top.

“No serious drama since you moved in together?”

“Nope,” she says. “He still hasn’t quite internalized the no shoes in the house rule, but if that’s the biggest problem, I’d say I’m luckier than most.”

“Yeah,” Kent says. “You gonna get married?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Maggie says, which is new. She usually rants about the ‘marriage industrial complex’ when he brings it up. “It means a lot to him.”

Kent presses his lips to the top of her head, trying not to think about the empty space he’ll leave at her wedding. “I’m glad,” he says.

“Yeah, well, you’re a goopy romantic and that shit gets you off,” Maggie says, rolling her eyes. “You’re gonna cry real tears when I throw the bouquet.”

“You know me so well,” Kent says, because he can’t say yes without lying.

 

  1. _Say goodbye to Jack_



It’s not that it’s more emotional saying goodbye to Jack than his family, it’s just a harder conversation to plan for. He knows how his mother and sister will respond to things. Jack’s more of a wild card.

Kent shows up outside his Providence apartment with the three host gifts he brought Bob and Alicia when he stayed at the Zimmermann house for the first time. He knows Jack will remember.

Sure enough, when Jack opens the door and looks down at the bottle of wine, bag of coffee beans, and whole pineapple in his hands, he shakes his head and steps back to let Kent inside. “My mom couldn’t stop talking about what a nice boy you were for weeks,” he says.

“I’m a very nice boy,” Kent says smugly, following him in.

“Want a drink?”

“Whatever you’re having,” Kent says.

He regrets this when it turns out Jack is having kombucha. Kent fucking hates kombucha.

“So what brings you to Providence?” Jack says, lips twitching as he watches Kent fight through two swallows of the shit.

“You,” Kent says, like it’s not obvious.

Jack looks down, picking at the label on his bottle.

Things are still weird between them. They talk now, stilted and hyperconscious of it – they text, when things come up that remind them of each other. It’s impossible to ignore the weight of the past that colors every interaction.

Jack didn’t tell Kent when he and the little blond baker broke up; Kent found out thirdhand from Sasha via Mashkov. That’s when Kent knew once and for all that they were never going to recover from this.

“You know me,” he says. “I don’t believe in no-win scenarios.”

Jack’s lips twitch again. “Are you quoting Star Trek?”

“Shit, am I?” Kent says. “If so, not on purpose.”

Jack waves a hand.

“I don’t believe in regret,” Kent forges on. “I can’t change what I’ve done in the past and I’m not going to spend time angsting about it, but if I can – It’s not over until it’s over, right?”

Jack’s expression goes tight. That’s the problem with their shared history. Every comment is a fucking landmine. The more Kent tries to fix things, the more they break.

“You’ve always thought of it that way,” Jack says quietly. “That any time spent on regret is needless angst.”

“I mean, kind of?” Kent says. He doesn’t like lying, even though he knows it’s the wrong answer.

“That’s the fundamental difference between us,” says Jack. “I don’t think of the past as something you can just sweep away.”

Kent feels his face getting hot. “That’s not what I’m saying and you know it.”

“Isn’t it?”

Kent grinds his teeth.

“Kent, it’s not about me being _mad_ at you, and it never has been,” Jack says, running a hand through his hair.

“We both know that’s not true,” Kent says.

Jack makes a face. Despite the moment, Kent can’t help but find it adorable. “Well…”

Kent waits.

“But it isn’t about that,” says Jack. “It’s about – You know Bittle and I broke up, right?”

Who calls their ex-boyfriend of like three years by his last name? “Yeah?”

“Do you think it’s because I stopped loving him one day?” Jack asks. “Do you think it was an easy choice for me? Sometimes chemistry isn’t enough. Sometimes things break and they can’t be put back together.”

“Then get some fucking glue, bitch,” Kent says.

A moment later, he cringes. He genuinely didn’t mean to say that out loud.

Jack stares at him, unimpressed.

“Continue,” Kent says.

“If your father came back, begging your forgiveness,” Jack starts.

“Don’t you fucking _dare_ compare me to him,” Kent says, hot and furious.

Jack winces, so he knows he’s in the wrong even if he won’t admit it. “I’m just saying, the history isn’t just about the event, it’s not about patching up a conflict. It’s about all the years in between, all the feelings that you can’t just rewrite.”

“When you look at me,” Kent says, “what exactly do you think of?”

Jack looks at him for a long time. Then he says, “Montreal. 2009.” He hesitates. “Your St. Christopher necklace and those dumb Spongebob shorts. How much you used to make me laugh, and how much I hurt you.”

Kent shakes his head. “Maybe that is the fundamental difference between us,” he says quietly.

“I mean, what is it you want from me?” Jack says. “I’m not 18, Kent.”

“I know,” Kent says.

Jack looks tired. He always looks tired after talking to Kent. “We’re not the same people we were. Someday you’re going to have to resign yourself to that.”

There are four days left.

“Yeah,” Kent says, lips twisting. “I guess you’re right.”

 

When he gets home from working out on the day it’s going to happen, Kent goes through his list one last time, then he flushes it down the toilet.

They’re going to find him tomorrow – Troy will come over to check why he didn’t show up to the weekly Awesome Vegas Losers Club brunch, and he’ll find him there, and then the police are going to get involved and it will be this whole thing. He doesn’t want anyone finding the list and coming to their own conclusions about his motivations here. His terrible This Is Not A Suicide Note will have to be enough.

He sits on the sofa and looks around at his empty Swedish Death Cleaned apartment and heaves Kit into his lap to stroke her with numb fingers.

“I could have been married by now,” he says aloud, because he knows it’s true. He and Gabe – or even one of a few others – could have had a big house in the suburbs, a backyard pool, a kid or two. “It’s by choice that I don’t.”

Then, because Dr. Sonia used to encourage him to dig deeper, to carry his thoughts through, he says, “…Because I know what it’s like to find someone dead on the bathroom floor.”

Kit looks up at him.

“Yeah, okay, it sounded less obvious in my head,” Kent admits.

 

Then, with two hours to go, Kent lets himself cry.

He cries about the years he should have left ahead, the children and grandchildren and cats and grandcats, the fact that he’ll never get the chance to bitch about his knees at an NHL Alumni event, the way he’s forcing his mother to bury her first child without an explanation, the hundreds of items left on the bucket list he never realized he had.

He cries so hard he gives himself a headache, and he knows he’s going to look all snotty and gross when the reaper shows up, which probably shouldn’t seem as important as it does. Still, he’s washing his face with cold water in the bathroom when his phone starts buzzing on the bedside table.

Out of morbid curiosity, he checks the Caller ID, and it’s Jack.

It’s Jack, and Kent’s chest goes tight. He debates not answering, because this is fucking hard enough already, but it turns out it would take a fate worse than death for him not to pick up Jack’s calls.

“Hey?” he says, trying to modulate his voice so it’s less obvious he’s just been crying. “Sup?”

“Hey,” Jack says. “You busy?”

Kent fights the urge to laugh hysterically. “Nah,” he says, sitting on his bed. “Why?”

He can sense the way Jack’s working his jaw through the phone. “It’s ten years since…”

“Yeah,” Kent says. Like he wouldn’t have known that even if the situation weren’t what it is. “I know.”

“I thought you would,” Jack says. “I just wanted to – Anyway, I thought I’d check in.”

“Wait, is this call for your benefit or mine?” Kent says, unsure if he’s being offered comfort or asked for it.

“Jesus, Kent,” Jack says. “Does it matter?”

Right. Kent never likes when their conversations devolve into fights, but this time seems more important than any other. “No,” he says, “but context helps, you know.”

Jack doesn’t say anything.

“I didn’t think you’d call,” Kent says, honestly. “You don’t usually.”

“I always hoped you wouldn’t need the reminder,” Jack says.

“Jesus Christ, what’s that supposed to mean?” Kent says, feeling himself getting tight and mean. Like he doesn’t fucking feel bad enough?

Jack sighs. “I didn’t mean –”

Any other night, Kent wouldn’t be able to let go of the fight, but not this time. He waits.

“I guess I hoped you’d forgotten. I hoped this would be like any other night for you,” Jack says. “I hoped that you wouldn’t _want_ the reminder.”

Kent’s eyes well up again. Evidently, it’s not actually possible to run out of tears. “Sorry, kiddo, but that’s never gonna happen,” he says roughly.

“Yeah, and that’s why I’m calling,” Jack says. “I always spend today feeling like shit. If you –”

“It’s not an if,” Kent interrupts.

“Yeah,” Jack says.

There’s a moment of comfortable silence. This, Kent realizes, is kind of a nice send-off. Much better than the failed attempt at conversation from before.

“Jack,” he says, because he’s had time to think about everything that went wrong in that fucking conversation.

“Hm?”

Kent looks at the ceiling, letting the tears leak from the corners of his eyes. “What I was trying to say before…”

“You don’t have to…” Jack sounds uncomfortable.

“I wasn’t trying to make you feel guilty,” Kent forges on. “I was trying to say, like… Even after everything, given the choice, I would always choose the room with you in it, you know? That’s always going to be true.”

Jack inhales slowly. “I wish it were that easy.”

“I know that it’s not,” Kent says. “I just thought you should know.”

He can hear the defeat in his voice, so it’s not a surprise that Jack picks up on it too. “Do you always get this macabre tonight?” he says, sounding like he’s smiling.

Kent can’t respond.

“Kent?” Jack says, no longer smiling. “Seriously, are you alright?”

“Zimms,” Kent says.

For some reason, that sets Jack swearing. “Stay on the phone with me,” he orders. “Are you at home?”

“Uh, yeah?” Kent says, confused. “Why?”

“Don’t hang up,” Jack says, and there’s a beeping sound on the other end.

Kent realizes suddenly that (A) Jack thinks he’s committing suicide literally as they speak and (B) that Jack has a landline phone.

A landline fucking phone.

“Please tell me –” Not important, Kent! He cuts himself off. “– _If you call 911 to my fucking apartment I swear to god I will put dog shit in your skates again_.”

“This isn’t a joke,” Jack says, and hits the dial button on his fucking landline phone.

Kent can hear it dialing three digits. “Jack! Oh my god hang up, please hang up, this is ridiculous and stupid and _I am not committing suicide please hang up oh my god_.” It strikes him that this situation would be funny if it weren’t so fucking tragic on so many levels.

Jack pauses. On the other end, Kent hears a tinny, _“911, what’s your emergency?”_

“Please hang up,” he hisses, “I can explain, but you have to hang up the fucking phone.”

“You swear?” Jack says.

_“This is 911, can you hear me? What is your emergency?”_

Kent slaps his hand over his eyes. “Ditch the cops and call me back in five minutes and I’ll consider forgiving you for this.”

He hangs up the phone and flops down on his back, fighting the inappropriate urge to laugh.

 

Exactly five minutes later, Jack calls back.

“I didn’t mean – whatever,” Kent says. “Dude, that was some kind of fucking overreaction.”

“You said you’d explain,” Jack says sulkily. “And if I’m not convinced, I’m definitely sending 911 to your house.”

In the last five minutes, Kent has gone over the situation from every angle, and he’s determined that there’s no getting out of this. He could definitely convince Jack nothing’s wrong for now, but once the news comes out that Kent Parson was found dead in his apartment, it would break Jack to more pieces than he’d ever been broken.

So there has to be a middle ground explanation somewhere, and Kent’s going to find it. “First off, again, I am not committing suicide, and fuck you for thinking I’d do that to my family.”

Jack waits.

“Secondly, I genuinely think you’d be happier if we hung up the phone right now and you forget we ever spoke today,” Kent says.

“I’m giving you three more minutes before I –”

“Okay!” Kent says loudly. This is the hardest thing he’s ever had to do. At least selling his soul had been an impulse decision; this bullshit is premeditated and it sucks so hard. “So basically, like, I guess I’m about to get killed, but not by choice? Don’t call 911!”

“What are you talking about?” Jack says, even more panicked. Kent can picture him in his mind’s eye, his fingers twitching towards the landline.

“I sold my soul to the reaper and now it’s time to collect,” Kent blurts out. It comes out easier than he thought it would. “Tonight.”

There’s a pregnant silence on Jack’s end of the phone.

“I never meant for you to…”

“Tonight?” Jack says, and Kent can hear the gears grinding in his mind, the moment when it all clicks. “Because…”

Kent swallows. “You were on the floor for a really long time, Jack,” he says softly, slowly. “Haven’t you ever wondered?”

“Fuck,” Jack says, and then something strange happens.

In the thousand times Kent has considered having this conversation with Jack, it always went one of two ways: Jack would get guilty or Jack would get angry about being made to feel guilty, and either way, Kent would end up with the job of placating him.

This eventuality did not factor into his imagined scripts.

“Put him on the phone,” Jack says.

“Put… who on the phone?”

“The reaper, when he gets there,” Jack says. “Put him on the phone with me.”

“You want me to… put an incorporeal death spirit on the phone with you,” Kent says. He can’t believe this conversation is happening.

“Psychopomp,” Jack corrects, and Kent hears keys tapping on his end.

“You’re the fucking psycho, what?”

“The accurate term for a spiritual guide to the afterlife is a psychopomp. Tell him you’re invoking the right to Chess with Death and then put me on the phone,” Jack says. “I don’t know the exact correct terminology for playing a game in exchange for a soul, but he’ll get it. It. They’re not really gendered.”

“Dude!” Kent feels like he’s swimming upstream here. “ _What_?”

“I took a class on the culture and practice of death around the world,” Jack says distractedly.

“They teach this shit in college?” Kent says, caught by this. “Huh, I feel bad for thinking your degree was completely useless. Revised to mostly.”

Jack snorts. “Much obliged.”

“So – you want to talk to the Grim Reaper when he comes to collect my soul?” Kent says. “Not to, uh, burst this bubble, but doesn’t that Chess with Death shit only work if it’s an honest death? I already played the game and lost by selling him my soul in the first place.”

“It’ll work,” Jack says. “You’re just not the one who’s allowed to play for it.”

At that moment, Kit hisses and dives under the bed, and the drapes stir in a nonexistent wind.

Kent’s throat goes dry.

 

It’s the same being he dealt with last time – a huge black wolf-dog with intelligent red eyes and soft, sleek fur that has a strangely smoky quality to it, like it’s blurring at the edges. Its breath fogs in the warm room.

“Hey, dog,” Kent says.

“Is it there?” Jack says, voice abruptly tight.

“Hello, pup,” says the wolf-dog in that rumbling tone that still makes the hair at the nape of Kent’s neck stand up. He’d kind of hoped he’d outgrown that. “Are you ready?”

“Um,” Kent says.

“ _Kent_ ,” Jack says.

“I – guess not?” Kent says. “I thought I was, but I’m being told otherwise.”

The wolf-dog does not look pleased. “Oh?”

“I’ve been informed I’m invoking the right to Chess with Death,” Kent says, and the wolf-dog gives a growl that vibrates the whole room. “I’ve also been told that arrangements should be taken up with my agent.” He holds out the phone.

The wolf-dog bats his phone out of his hands; Kent shivers at the brush of his cold fur against his skin where it touches. The sight of it tilting its head to position its muzzle at the phone’s mic is, in a word, ridiculous. “He _sold_ his rights, he has no leverage.”

Jack says something.

“It doesn’t work that way,” the wolf-dog says.

Jack says something.

The wolf-dog looks at Kent.

“He took a class on it,” Kent says.

The wolf-dog grumbles wordlessly. “And you will play for his soul?” he says into the phone.

“Wait, who? Jack?” Kent says, panic spiking through him. “I didn’t agree to that.”

“Quiet, pup,” says the wolf-dog.

Kent grabs for the phone. “Jack! I swear to god, if you –”

“You’re being disruptive,” says the wolf-dog. “Wait until we’re finished.”

“I will _not –_ ”

The darkness hits him like a truck.

 

Kent wakens slowly, then all at once.

He’s in a locker room that he thinks is the Aces’ until he catches flickers of cornflower blue in his peripheral vision. The location of the shower is from Rimouski, the logo on the floor says Vegas, and there might be some hint of his Pee-Wee years in how high the ceilings seem.

He looks at his hands. They feel real enough.

For some reason, his first reflex is to look around for his gear, but there’s nothing at his cubicle, and he knows instinctively not to touch anyone else’s equipment. He does a slow lap of the room. When he nears the exit to the rink, he hears the unmistakable sound of skates slicing the ice.

He walks in a daze to the visitors’ bench. They’re not playing on home ice, he thinks distantly.

Of all people, it’s Mosh sitting on the bench taping his stick. Kent feels a weird sense of déjà vu when he takes the spot next to him.

“If you think we’re not talking about this later,” Mosh says mildly.

“We’re talking about this now,” Kent says, but there’s a barrier between him and the hysteria he knows he should be feeling. He's tranquil in a way he probably shouldn’t be, and feels a new understanding for Jack’s addiction that led to all this in the first place. “What’s happening?”

“Shootout,” Mosh says.

“You’re… playing a shootout for my soul?” Kent says.

“I’m taking second shot,” Mosh says. “He wanted a flat two out of three scores, but Zimmermann talked him down to the standard ‘one over the other team’ rules.”

Kent stares.

“It,” Mosh says. “They’re not gendered, right.”

“You’re…” Kent says. He blinks a few times. “Is this real?”

Mosh tips his head back and laughs. “Is life real, Parser?”

This is not a sufficient answer, as far as Kent is concerned. “But like, where are our bodies right now?”

“Dude, we have been playing together for nine years,” Mosh says. “You should know that my pre-shootout ritual does _not_ include existential rabbit holes.” He shoots Kent a stern, but fond, look.

“Right,” Kent says. “Where’s –?”

Mosh points.

Kent looks out over the ice, finding Jack taking shots into an empty net across the ice. He hasn’t played with Jack for over nine years, but he knows Jack’s standard pre-shootout ritual does not include distractions.

“Who’s going third?” he says over his shoulder, watching Jack’s form. He still feels weirdly calm. “Please tell me it’s Oshie.”

“Kovalchuk,” Mosh shoots back, and Kent laughs. “But nah, it’s Lev.”

Kent raises his eyebrows. He and their coach have always had a volatile relationship, and Kent can’t count on two hands the number of times he’s argued with Mosh over whether Lev hates Kent for being better than him.

Kent still cringes when he remembers that particular Game 6 post-game blowup, shouting _Why’d you even give me the C if you’re so convinced you could win it without me?_ across the uncomfortably quiet locker room.

_A true captain wouldn’t have to ask that question_ , Lev had said, quiet and disgusted, and Kent had gone home, broken a lamp, and spite-eaten an entire jumbo pack of Oreos before breaking down on the phone to Mosh.

But there he was across the ice with Jack, heads bent together in deep discussion, and Kent felt his throat clamp up tight despite his otherwise blunted emotions.

“He was a shootout specialist in his day,” Mosh says behind him. “He’ll do you good, Parser.”

“Yeah,” Kent says, eyes burning.

 

After some time, Mosh clears his throat and stands up. “I don’t think you should watch,” he says.

“Why?” Kent says.

Mosh’s hand comes down on his shoulder. “If we go one for three, are you going to want to know who let you down?”

“No,” Kent says. “That’s probably smart.”

Mosh’s glove dulls the contact when he squeezes down, but Kent can still feel every individual finger. “I mean, you’ll know because I’d sooner stab myself in the throat than miss this one, but you can lie to yourself if you want to believe your babe pulled it out for you.”

Kent quirks his lips.

“You’re right, this is too gallows for even me,” Mosh says. “Parser, we’re gonna do it. Psycho-whatever is gonna feel fucking dumb when we go three-for-three against whatever wizard goalie he puts up.”

Kent picks up his head. “Wait, goalies,” he realizes. “Does that mean…?”

“Who else?” Mosh says, and somehow Kent is sure she’s been there the whole time, even though he’s been staring at the ice fixedly for minutes.

Sure enough, when he looks at the visitor’s goal, Maggie’s in the net, face fixed in the same focused expression she used to wear when he was practicing his accuracy against her in the backyard, too tiny to fit into the secondhand pads their mom had scrounged up from some charity giveaway.

“Oh, _sick_ ,” Kent says, feeling about a thousand times better. No conjured ghost ringer could ever – They could offer up spirit clones of Gretzky and Lemieux and Jagr in their prime and he’d still bet on Maggie if she was as pissed off as she looked now.

“Yeah, she’s scary,” Mosh agrees. “Good luck, death fuckers.”

“Seriously,” Kent says.

 

“So,” Kent says when he finally notices the game clock ticking down to zero – eight minutes and counting. “What happens if y’all lose?”

“Reapers take both your souls,” Mosh says.

“Me and Jack?”

Mosh nods.

“That fucking defeats the purpose,” Kent says, trying to decide if he’s furious or heartbroken about this. Both? Both. “Does he have any idea –”

“He said if he’s not allowed to feel guilty for you doing it for him, you’re not allowed to feel guilty for this,” Mosh says evenly.

Kent shuts up.

“Did you really think he was going to take that lying down?” Mosh says, looking at Jack. “Bro, I’m not gonna claim to know him half as well as you do, but even I know that his number one personality trait is how much he hates losing. There’s Puck Personality vlogs about that business. _Crosby_ thinks he takes shit too seriously.”

“He does not,” Kent says.

Mosh waves a hand.

Kent looks across the ice at Jack. At 18, before the Draft that Wasn’t, Kent would have bet anything Jack would have sold his soul for him if it came up. Afterwards, Kent would still have taken the bet, but he wouldn’t have wagered as much on it.

But every passing year made it clearer to him how much it didn’t work both ways – that Jack wouldn’t always choose the room with him in it. And every passing year, Kent has adjusted to that awareness, felt the sharpness of it dulling at the edges.

Jack hated losing in any condition, but he only threw a tantrum when the stakes mattered. Kent has spent 10 years learning over and over how their definitions of that differed.

But maybe it isn’t the boundary that differs, but the size and scope – Kent’s ‘room’ is a _room_ , but Jack’s is the whole world, and he’s gone to sleep every night knowing that Kent lives and breathes 3000 miles away.

Kent isn’t delusional. Maybe it’s just Jack’s sense of responsibility, fair play, and an oversized martyr complex that led to this point; he can’t count the idea out.

But maybe it isn’t.

 

When the clock hits the five minute mark, Jack skates over. “Hey,” he says, pulling off his helmet.

“Hey,” says Kent.

Mosh clears out to go take some warmup shots.

“This is so surreal,” Kent says.

Jack quirks his lips.

“No, seriously. I still can’t believe the devil is letting you –”

“Not the devil,” Jack says.

“Thanks, Janet,” Kent says.

Jack furrows his brow.

Jack would _love_ The Good Place. His friends have failed him on this account. Kent resolves to rectify this if and when they survive. “You know what I mean. I can’t believe I’m counting on your shootout skills to save my soul.”

Jack looks insulted.

“That was commentary on the ridiculousness of the situation, not an insult to your shootout skills,” Kent says. Mosh is right, even Crosby would judge this level of neurosis. “Keep up.”

“Would you have picked differently?” Jack says. “I thought about demanding a full game, but I thought I could better stack the deck in the shootout.”

“ _Not the point_.”

Jack huffs.

“Seriously?” Kent says. “No, I probably would have picked Settlers of Catan.”

“Are you serious?” Jack says, like he’s not sure whether Kent is kidding.

“I am _boss_ at Settlers of Catan.”

“You can’t be that good at it, it’s three-quarters luck,” Jack says.

“Sounds like something someone who blows at Settlers of Catan would say,” Kent says peaceably.

“You are Kent Parson,” Jack says. “You’re the second best shootout specialist in a league that is only getting better at shootouts over time, and you’re seriously trying to tell me you would play _Settlers of Catan_ to save your soul?”

Despite himself, Kent feels a flare of irritation at the ‘second best’ qualifier. “Nielsen?”

Jack shoots him a look that says he shouldn’t have to ask.

“My shootout record is less than 50% over my career,” Kent says. “My Settlers of Catan record is 100%. Do the math for me, college boy.”

“ _This is the dumbest conversation ever_ ,” Maggie yells across the ice at them.

“You already called that permanently for the barbecue Doritos argument!” Kent calls back. “No take-backs.”

“I can take it the fuck back if I want to, you dumb motherfuckers,” Maggie says. She always gets foul-mouthed before big games; Catherine blames Kent, and Kent can’t categorically deny it.

“So what, you’ve never lost Settlers?” Jack says, crossing his arms.

“I’d say that’s what a 100% record means, college boy,” Kent says. He knows they’re both letting themselves get silly and stupid as a distraction against the counter (01:17, 01:16, 01:15) ticking away overhead, but he’s not inclined to complain.

He knows that Jack’s pre-shootout ritual when Kent’s not there is different than when he is.

“Then your sample size is too small to be valid,” Jack says. “There’s no such thing as a 100% record at scale.”

“Bullshit!” Kent says. “Get over yourself.”

“Your findings would be rejected from any legitimate journal,” Jack says. He arches an eyebrow. “See, I went to college. I read journals.”

Kent’s flat demeanor breaks, and he starts laughing with sheer joy, head tipping back. It’s been a long time since he’s had a chance to shoot the shit with Jack mid-game.

Jack’s lips twitch.

Then Jack grabs his face in both hands and fucking _lays_ one on him, lips colliding hard and hungry and fierce, leaving Kent reeling.

“Uh?” he says, when Jack releases him.

“Fucking finally!” Maggie says, banging her stick on the ice.

“He told me I won’t remember when we go back,” Jack whispers from very close up. “I want you to remind me.”

“You won’t believe me,” Kent says.

“Did I doubt you this time?” Jack says, arching an eyebrow.

“I…”

“Promise you’ll tell me,” Jack says, as the counter ticks down – 00:10, 00:09, 00:08.

“I will,” Kent says, grabbing Jack’s wrists when he starts to draw away. “I promise.”

Jack picks up his helmet.

The clock hits zero.

 

Kent follows Mosh’s advice and goes back to the locker room. He feels too panicky to sit, so he paces the length of the room, back and forth, carefully skirting the Aces logo in the center. There’s a dull murmur of voices from the ice, but he shuts it out, not wanting to hear whatever they’re discussing.

He can hear the scrape of skates as Jack takes position at center ice.

Kent clamps his hand over his ears, squeezing his eyes shut and screaming internally to drown out the sounds from the rink. He’s pretty sure he’ll throw up if he hears the ring off the post. After long enough that he’s pretty sure the attempt is over one way or the other, he pulls his hands away.

There’s no audience to cheer anyway, but the silence reminds him eerily of taking the first shot on home ice and missing. Will he spend eternity blaming Jack? He likes to think he wouldn’t, but who really knows?

It stays quiet for some time, and Kent wonders if ghost blades make any noise. If not, it’s not fair to Maggie – sound is half the defensive strategy for a goalie against a breakaway.

He starts to feel even worse about the whole thing. His stomach is tying into knots.

Finally a second pair of skates takes to the ice, and Kent crouches into a ball, pressing his hands to his ears and humming loudly this time, pretty sure he’s going to vomit no matter what he hears.

After enough time, he cautiously peels his hands away again. The same silence meets him, and Kent presses his fist to his mouth, trying to convince himself this could be a good thing.

Absurdly, he thinks of Kit in that moment. He wonders what she’s doing. Then he thinks of Catherine, and he wonders if she knows. How could she, though?

A third scrape of skates sounds, flooding Kent with conflicting emotion. He wants the whole thing to be over, and at the same time, he’s nowhere near ready for it to end.

“Oh, god,” he croaks out, gnawing on his thumbnail and rocking a little in place. He’s never going to make it. He’s going to have a heart attack and die right here. Is that even possible? Maybe he’ll be the first.

There’s a swish, swish, swish of skates pumping down the ice, then a satisfying snap of the stick connecting with the puck, the grind of skates kicking up snow on a sudden brake, and –

 

Kent wakes up.

 

He sits up with a jolt, finding himself in his own bedroom in Vegas, sunlight streaming through the window. Kit’s on the bed next to him, taking up more than her fair share of space.

Kent touches his face, hardly able to believe it. When he looks down at his hands, he sees their shaking.

It doesn’t feel like hell.

“Oh my god,” he says, and then the rush of emotion hits him with the full force that had been blocked off from him earlier. He’s so happy he doesn’t feel happy at all, just shaky, jittery, every nerve alight.

He grabs Kit and buries his face in her fur, laughing desperately, unable to stop. Kit yowls and frees herself from his clutches soon enough, and Kent buries his face in his knees instead, letting the stress of 10 years of a death sentence melt away.

He only has five shirts, he realizes in some detached part of his brain. Mistakes might have been made. His mind starts working in overdrive, thinking of the things he needs to do – flush the terrible This Is Not A Suicide Note, start planning his toast for Maggie’s wedding, call Jack, buy more shirts.

His phone buzzes next to him, and Kent picks it up, expecting to see Troy’s number.

It’s Jack.

Kent doesn’t have to think before picking it up, even though he has an idea why Jack would be calling: a reproduction of the call of the night before that he wouldn’t remember. Jack’s checking on him on the anniversary of his overdose, and he can’t imagine Jack will be reassured by the nigh-hysterical version of Kent he’s going to find. Kent's actually going to get 911 showing up at his apartment this time, he thinks.

“Hey?” he says.

“Check your email,” Jack says.

Kent checks his email. The most recent one is a receipt from some British microbrewery, and Kent is confused until he scrolls down and sees the image of the T-shirt that’s going to be delivered in 10-14 business days.

_PSYCHOPOMP_  
&  
CIRCUMSTANCE

“Jack,” he breathes out. His mind is reeling; he can’t make the words come.

“Maggie bet her own soul at the last minute for my memories to stay intact,” Jack says. “That’s when I knew it was over before it started.” Kent can hear his smile. “She wasn’t going to let you go anywhere.”

“Oh my god,” Kent says, closing his eyes, overwhelmed.

“Kenny,” Jack says.

_Oh my god_ , Kent mouths giddily into his knees.

“You were going to die for me,” Jack says, “but more than that, _you were going to die_. I couldn’t – I _wouldn’t –_ ”

“Yeah,” Kent says, feeling dizzy and dazed.

“Given the choice, I want to be in that room with you,” Jack says fiercely. Then his voice softens. “If only to make sure you don’t pull this kind of bullshit on me again.”

“Okay,” Kent says, and then, because he can’t help himself, “I mean, kind of an overreaction, but okay.”

There’s a beat pause, then Jack starts laughing. “I can’t fucking believe you,” he says when he recovers himself.

“Don’t pretend you’re surprised,” Kent says, grinning hugely. Jack deserves to know what he’s getting himself into – psh, as if he didn’t already. “You’ve got max 20 minutes before we resolve that barbecue Doritos argument once and for all.”

“Jesus Christ,” Jack says, impossibly fond. “Am I buying your ticket or are you?”

“Wait, why do I have to be the one to travel? You know that direction is worse for jet lag,” Kent says, and he’s only 75% kidding.

“I swear to god, Kenny,” Jack says, and there’s a tapping of keys on his end. “You’re going to be…” He trails off.

“The death of you?” Kent fills in.

“Yeah,” Jack says.

“Seems like it,” Kent says.

“Alright,” says Jack easily.


End file.
